Red Wunz go Fasta!
by xiao32615987
Summary: Nozgub is fairly small for an Ork, even a Mek, and different in a few other ways as well but they do say that Mork has a plan for every greenskin and it seems he sees some good things in Nozgub.
1. Chapter 1

_An Orky story. There didn't seem to be many around, so I wrote one. Sorry about the title, I might change it if I can think of something better. Anyway, please read and review; if I get enough positive reviews, I'll continue_ _it._

* * *

"RUNT! RUNT! RUNT! RUNT!"

The cries that followed him out of the doors penetrated deeper into his conscious than even the pots, pans and occasional food squig; still live; thrown after him, the squigs screaming in pleasure at the prospect of this unexpected flight. He had always been treated in this way, and more Orks joined in the jeers as he bolted through the main courtyard.

It was only when he reached a much quieter part of the base, between the Mek's garage and the pen in which most of the squigs were kept; that Nozgub finally stopped and dropped to the floor, exhausted.

Nozgub was small for an Ork, even for a Mekboy; and it was for this that he had always been the subject of the most abuse from the other greenskins, and even other Meks. In any other Ork, such abuse would've sent him into an uncontrollable rage; but in Nozgub, even that latest humiliation had barely sparked the anger and bloodlust that was the inner Ork. This was a fact that he lamented, and one of the main reasons why he had not grown when other Orks he had known since he was a Yoof, had reached positions in the Warboss' bodyguard. Though most had instead met with grisly deaths on the battlefield; that was one thing to be thankful for at least.

"Boss?" A small and high-pitched voice inquired; Nozgub instinctively drew his Slugga; a life of being snuck upon and ambushed had at least tuned his reflexes. But there was no need to be worried; the voice belonged to Smashit, one of his Gretchin assistants. It was only these two Grots, Smashit and Hitit, out of the entire tribe that Nozgub could succeed in intimidating, not that he ever really tried, which is probably why they still followed him around; he could always count on them to steal food or equipment that he needed and now was no different.

Each of the Grots stood before him now, each carrying large and juicy looking food squigs. The Grots themselves were typical for their type, pale skinned and small, only just under the size of a Human; Smashit was noticeable by the red bandana tied around his head and the large Orky mallet slung across his back; Hitit beside him wore a similar bandana in yellow which covered his eyes and had to have holes cut in it such that he could see out of it, he carried an oversized spanner. Both Grots were armed, as Nozgub had taught them, with Grot Blastas; Hitit had a large blunderbuss like weapon, which he treated as though it were made of shiny stuff which Nozgub had sometimes seen Humies fighting over; and Smashit had his own pair of miniature sluggas made by Nozgub himself and of which he was extremely proud.

"We 'as brought you some food." Smashit squeaked nervously. Holding up the squig; he stood anxiously, even though neither Grot had ever seen Nozgub be as aggressive as any other Ork, they were still cautious around him after he had been bullied.

Nozgub slipped his Slugga back into the holster attached to his tool belt. "Fanks." he grunted, taking the still wriggling squigs. Both of the Gretchin seemed to swell with pleasure, large grins swelling across their faces; as they did whenever Nozgub said anything nice to them. Nozgub ignored them and stared at the squig whose tail he held between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand; it swayed back and forth merrily, surprisingly energetic for a creature bred and fattened for food. Nozgub stretched out his middle finger and tickled the creature's belly; it rocked back and forward more rapidly, squealing in its manner of laughter, kicking out with its two clawed feet and giving a large and toothy grin alternately to Nozgub and the Grots as it swayed to and fro.

In a flash, as the squig turned towards him, Nozgub struck; and, in one bite, ripped the creature's head off. It took the remainder of the body several moments to realise that it had just been killed before it actually stopped moving. During that time Nozgub felt the taste of its warm flesh; the trickle of blood and the lovely crunch of bones beneath his teeth; he liked the way the blood trickled out of his mouth and the flesh and jellied brain slid down his throat. It was at that moment that he realised just how hungry he was, having eaten nothing but scraps for days. In seconds he tore apart the two squigs, delighting in the taste of real meat.

After it was done, he belched loudly; spitting out one of the little squig bones onto the grass, which was now stained with spots of blood. Those two Grots had really outdone themselves this time, he thought; laying back and feeling immensely tired. "Where'd youse two nick dem from?" He asked.

"Da boyz hut." Hitit answered, speaking just as nervously as he had done earlier; "We slipped 'em out of da Kitchun; when da uvver Orks was shoutin' at you."

Nozgub knew why the Grots were so nervous, they expected him to be angry about that as well; but he knew that his inner Ork had gone to sleep long ago, and he wanted to join it. He grunted; "Keep an eye out, I is goin' ta sleep." He said from the corner of his mouth, it was as close as he got to ordering these tiny greenskins about.

"Yes boss." The Grot responded, and he heard the distinct noise Hitit loading his blasta; he laughed quietly to himself, if any trouble came along that puny weapon wouldn't do much compared to the things Nozgub had tucked away.

[*]

The roar was deafening; and it pounded through Nozgub's skull like a drummer beating directly onto his head. He sat up like a spring-loaded Cybork, his Slugga drawn even before his eyes had cleared.

It was a second before he realised, with precision that only a Mek was capable of that the roar was being made by engines; lots of them. He rubbed his eyes with his left hand, pushing out those little gritty bits which often got stuck there after sleep. Wide awake now, he could tell that there must be at least a mobs worth of engines.

His eyes finally cleared, he took a quick look about him and saw no sign of Hitit, who was supposed to be keeping watch; quietly cursing the Grot, he got to his feet. There seemed to be nothing amiss within the base, other than that great rumbling noise; it seemed to be coming from the main courtyard, and looking over he could see a large plume of smoke and dust arising from somewhere beyond the Mek's shop. He decided that it would be best to see what was going on, lest he face more accusations of being a wimpy Grot; so Nozgub moved towards the source of the noise as quietly and sneakily as possible.

Nozgub was fairly skilled at moving quietly, years of stealing from other Orks as he scraped out a living on the edge of the camp had made him quite experienced in this regard; and his lack of any armour other than the thick squig-hide shirt he wore made it much easier. The others often taunted him for this as well "_Real Orkses ain't supposed to hide, dey's supposed to WAAAGH!" _they often said; not that Nozgub minded much, they didn't know that all of their missing stuff was being taken by another Ork, they thought that it was the Grots. Nozgub laughed quietly; he may be weaker than the others, but he was a lot more cunning.

When he finally reached the main courtyard, Nozgub was astounded by what he saw. The place was filled with vehicles, Warbikes and Warbuggies in their dozens and even a collection of mean looking Wartrukks, each one kitted out with guns and whole mobs of Boyz hanging from anywhere they could. Nozgub had never seen so much technology in one place, even though he was one of the tribe's Meks; they all sat there like great snorting beasts, belching out smoke and exhaust fumes, grumbling and roaring. All of the vehicles were painted in bright reds, like the colour of 'Ooman blood; though this made good sense, every Ork knew that red ones always go faster.

A congregation of his own Tribe's Orks had come out of the Boyz Huts to watch this strange collection of Greenskins. Many of them, like Nozgub, had come prepared with weapons, Shootas and Choppas; ready to join a fight, if one was going to start, or start one themselves, if it wasn't.

It was only as one vast Warbike, bedecked with a variety of huge guns and a huge Ork to match entered the base, that Nozgub realised just who he was looking at. Most of the other boyz called them 'Speed Freaks', a type of madboy who believe that going fast and getting to the fight first is more important that weight of numbers; as a result they always travelled in vehicles of varying sizes, roaming around and lending their services in battle to any tribe who could promise them food, fuel and a share of the looting after the battle; from which they would build even bigger, faster and shootier machines on which to go charging into the next battle. That must be what was about to happen here, the huge Ork on the bike was the Speed Freaks' boss, and in a moment he'd do a deal with Nozgub's boss; and they'd go out to fight with some other tribe somewhere.

There was another roar, and a whoosh which distracted Nozgub's attention; he saw a black shadow dart across the floor, heading for the end of the base from which Nozgub had come. The roar was another engine, but it was nothing like those which stood in the courtyard before him; it was smooth and powerful, like the voice of the god Mork himself; To Nozgub, it was the noise of the most wonderful piece of machinery he had ever heard. He needed to hear it again, to find out what made that noise; and the Mekboy's urge to tinker and build awakened inside him. All other thoughts forgotten, he rushed over to where he had seen it disappear, somewhere beyond the Meks' hut; he didn't care about the Speed Freaks or the possibility of battle; he just wanted that machine.

[*]

There it was, standing on the dirt only a grot throws away from him; and it was magnificent. It was a great steel bird; with a gaping toothy mouth instead of a beak, which sucked in air; and two blackened and burnt exhausts which blasted it back out again. It had wide steel wings, with many huge bombs slung underneath; from each wing poked what was unmistakeably a big shoota; with two more poking from its nose and another pair in a swivelling turret to the rear of where the pilot sat, it was one of the shootiest machines Nozgub had ever laid eyes on. He knew, from the stories the old Big Mek had told him when he was a yoof, that it was called a Fighta-Bommer. And it was sitting right in front of him, on two big wheels and one little one; he could just go over and take it. No, he couldn't; he realised as the great glass canopy over the Orkpit swung wide open and the pilot forced himself out.

The flyboy was a very big Ork; and a very mean one, he scowled at everything as he climbed out of the machine and gave it a brutal kick with one large, ironclad boot. Nozgub took one look at the Ork, who was much bigger than himself and carried a brutally large cleaver to emphasise it, and decided that he couldn't win a fight against him; especially if he were trying to steal the Fighta-Bommer. The flyboy stomped his way over to a vehicle which Nozgub hadn't noticed arrive, so enraptured was he with the flying machine. It was a modified wartrukk, with many large boxes, most likely filled with ammo; towing a tanker, which must be fuel; and complete with a very scared looking group of Orks and Grots, and who could blame them given the Ork they had to deal with.

"Boss." A small voice came from behind him; and in less then a second Nozgub found himself once again looking at his two Grot assistants from down the barrel of his Slugga.

"Don't sneak up on me." He half growled; holstering the bulky pistol, although he was more relieved to see them than he'd let on.

"Sorry boss." Smashit squeaked. They were both very good at sneaking, most Grots were, but Smashit and Hitit were particularly skilled; it was often very useful.

Nozgub went back to observing the bulky Speed Freak flyboy, shouting at his ground krew, who had turned up in the modified trukk. The Orks looked scared, but the Grots looked ready to cover their vehicle in dung, if it weren't for the fact that this would probably drive their boss into quite a rage. Nozgub looked back to the Fighta-Bommer, he could barely take his eyes off it; it was as if it were calling to him, inviting him to get inside. "I want dat plane." He whispered to himself.

"But how iz we gonna get it?" Asked Smashit, taking Nozgub by surprise. He cursed silently; he'd forgotten just how good Grots' ears could be.

It took him a moment to answer but eventually he did, "We iz gonna take it right from under dere noses." Yes, he decided, that was good. After all, that stupid flyboy had left it completely empty; and that was as good as an open invitation. He turned to Hitit, "Distract 'em."

Hitit considered for a moment, before grabbing one of his smaller spanners, he held it with his arm cocked; taking careful aim; and waited. Nozgub knew what he was about to do, and readied his Slugga. Just as the flyboy turned away from his krew, Hitit swung. Releasing the spanner with great force, it flew through the air in a clean arc, before bouncing off the back of the huge Ork's skull.

There was silence for a moment, while a trickle of black blood dripped down from the flyboy's skull; his krew watching with stunned expressions. After what seemed like a long time, the Ork let out a bellow that seemed to shake the buildings and turned, screaming, onto his own ground krew. Nozgub didn't bother to watch as the area around the Trukk became a tangled mess of flying fists and shouts of pain and anger; instead he made straight for the fighta-bommer.

In no time at all he had hauled himself up into the pilot's seat, it was big, hard and uncomfortable; but that didn't matter, To Nozgub it had that welcome feel like a favourite spanner or mallet. His eyes roamed quickly over the controls as he heard Smashit and Hitit scramble into the space behind him, under the controls of the turreted big shootas. There was a large stick in front of him, with a trigger on it, he guessed that it fired the other big shootas; to his right were a pair of big sliding things which must control the speed, to confirm his thoughts he spotted the writing at different positions the sliders could take _'fast'_, _'faster'_ and _'really fast'_; just in beyond these was a big red button, and Nozgub knew from experience that whenever a Mek put a big red button on something, you should never push it unless it was a real emergency… or you REALLY wanted to. The rest of the control panel was a baffling mystery; there were so many buttons, switches, levers, dials and sliders and even a pair of pedals at his feet which didn't seem to do anything at all, not matter how hard he kicked them; he wondered if half of these controls even did anything. After a long search, he finally found what he was looking for; a big blue button labelled 'GO'; and pushed it.

The Fighta-Bommer started making that most wonderful of noises again as the engines kicked in and the machine began to roll forwards. Thinking quickly, Nozgub closed the canopy; and as he did so, he noticed that the sound of the engines starting had alerted the flyboy to the fact that someone was in his plane. Barely realising what he was doing, Nozgub forced the speed sliders into the 'really fast' position.

The effect was immediate, like he had just been sat on by a giant squig, but Nozgub revelled in the feeling as the Fighta Bommer began to speed forwards; bouncing roughly over the stones and holes that pockmarked this area where they had set up camp. He was taken by surprise when the tail of the aircraft lifted off the ground, and he almost fell over the back of the seat; instead he grasped the stick with the trigger on it, but it moved as he pulled it and, quite suddenly the machine shot up into the air.

This time he didn't grab onto the stick to save himself, but the sides of the seat itself; he heard squeals as the two Grots rolled down to the back of the plane. He panicked, Orks were meant for fighting, not flying; that's why Gork and Mork had given them guns and not wings. He grasped the stick in his terror, now certain that it was this which controlled the flight of the aircraft, and pulled in every direction he could get it to.

The Fighta Bommer dived, climbed, pitched, rolled and turned in large loops across the sky as its desperate pilot tried to bring it under some form of control; but it was not easy as all three greenskins were thrown about the Orkpit with each lurch of the control stick, and the aircraft itself screeched and screamed as it was put under such tremendous punishment.

"Boss, how does we control dis fing?" Smashit screamed, after being thrown against the turret guns for the fourth time.

"I 'as almost got it," Nozgub shouted back, the fear evident in his own voice.

"I fink I is gonna be sick." Hitit complained, holding desperately onto the back of Nozgub's chair.

"There, got it." Nozgub proclaimed; and the lurching stopped. The fighta bommer flew on the straight and level, still as fast and as wild as an untamed attack squig, but now Nozgub was in control; and it felt good. The sheer feeling of the speed they were going at awakened something inside him, the blood pounded through his veins and his heart sounded as loud as a squiggoth's; something filled his very mind, a savage feral desire, like nothing he had ever felt before. He felt the lust for power pouring through him, and this aircraft provided him with it; he could use it to shoot, smash, stomp and kill, nothing would stop him. So this is what it felt like, that inner Ork.

"Boss, there's someone behind us." Squeaked Smashit, gazing out of the rear of the canopy, where he could indeed see another plane weaving back and forth, streaming after them. Nozgub was barely listening, the sound of his pulse pounding against his eardrums seemed to drown out everything else; his mind only just registered the sound of four big shootas beating out a deadly rhythm.

"They's shooting at us!" Hitit screamed, having joined Smashit to stare at the other Fighta. "What's we gonna do?"

Nozgub didn't respond at first, his eyes were wide and more alive than ever before and drool escaped from his mouth.

"MORE SPEED!" He cried, and slammed his fist into the big red button.

* * *

_It saddens me that there couldn't be more Orky humour in this chapter, but there has to be a serious start. If I get enough good reviews and continue it; then I'll be sure to try and insert some in later chapters._


	2. Chapter 2

_Good reviews, thank you; but please keep them coming, I want to hear your opinions on each new bit of the story, helps me know if I'm going in the right direction._

_Nozgub does not translate from Orky glyphs, it's just something I decided upon at the time which sounded suitable._

_I feel that I should point out that the other aircraft chasing Nozgub is a fighta and not a fighta-bommer; fightas are smaller, have a differently designed tail, don't mount a rear turret and, of course, don't carry bombs. I'm sure that most of you were aware of that, I just felt that it should be cleared up. Of course pictures of fightas and fighta-bommers can be found on the forge world website. _

_Anyway, the next part._

* * *

The fighta bommer blasted forward; Nozgub had the brief sensation of being kicked in the rear by a warboss, before it seemed that someone had sat a squiggoth on his lap. The smooth roar of the engine changed; first what seemed like an explosion shook the entire airframe and then the fighta bommer became a snarling, angry beast, something vast which Nozgub had just violently awoken from a peaceful slumber and was now ready to go on the rampage.

Nozgub revelled in the feeling of extreme speed; surely this must be faster than any ork had gone before, and it was the most enjoyable feeling he had ever experienced, better even than tinkering with guns and bombs. The Grots behind him screamed as they were once more thrown violently into the guns at the back, and even the steering stick wasn't responding very well; but Nozgub couldn't care less, all he wanted to do was avoid that mountain.

He had been going so fast, he hadn't even noticed it approach, but now he pulled hard on the stick towards him and to the left. The aircraft just managed the turn, with the wings shaking and the whole frame juddering and creaking in protest, it just managed to avoid the giant rocky death before it; the belly of the fighta bommer skimmed the trees and the tops of several were set alight by the afta-burna, which put out a gout of flame equal to any flamethrower Nozgub had seen.

After once more being pressed into his seat by the force of the turn, Nozgub managed to wrestle the machine back onto something like a straight flight path, though it still wobbled, juddered and creaked. This time, however, there was a new noise, a thundering drumming noise from somewhere behind him, followed by a series of metallic clanks and clinks; then everything went quiet.

Well, not quiet; quieter. The snarling screams of the engine became a cough, a splutter and then went back to being a smooth roar; like the beast had gone back to sleep. The fighta bommer started to slow down.

"What da zog is wrong wiv dis fing?" Nozgub shouted; punching the big red button repeatedly, to no avail. He wanted that speed back again; compared to it, the plane's normal speed seemed slow, like some bloated food squig too fat to walk.

"Boss, he's behind us again!" Smashit squealed.

Nozgub looked round, both Grots were clinging to the small seat which was slung beneath the turret guns; the bulk of which obstructed most of his view outside the windows, but he could see enough. A red weaving object that was the big flyboy's fighta, spraying incandescent yellow lines than wiggled across the sky towards them, popped in and out of view. Nozgub was stunned, that little fighta had managed to keep up with his bigger and redder fighta bommer, that was completely unfair; that was cheating.

"Blast dat fing!" Nozgub bellowed to the Grots, making them fall from the gunner's seat.

That the sneaky flyboy must have deliberately left out his slower plane, knowing that Nozgub would take it, just so he could chase it in his faster fighta; yes, that was it, he decided. Nozgub knew that he was better that any dumb flyboy; he would teach him a lesson by wrecking his fancy fighta and squashing that flyboy with it. He hauled the stick round, causing the fighta bommer to weave even more erratically than it already was, dodging the renewed firing from the pursuing fighta. He risked a quick glance behind him to see that the two grots were fighting each other to get control of the turreted big shootas; Nozgub shook his head, wasting time when they could be blasting things, stupid grots.

"Oy! Sort yerselves out!" He bellowed over his shoulder, "Don't make me come back there!"

Nozgub's encouragement seemed to do the trick, and barely a moment later his ears were once again filled with the sound of big shootas, though from much closer to home; and a quick glance told him all he needed to know. They had decided on a system which allowed them to both operate the weapons, with Hitit sitting in the gunner's seat (which, being made for orks, was far too big for grots) and was operating the pedals which caused the whole turret assembly (seat included) to rotate one way or the other. Smashit was standing upon Hitit's shoulders and was clinging onto the handles of the guns, blasting away at the enemy fighta; whilst calling orders to Hitit, telling him to turn left or right as was required.

Nozgub laughed quietly to himself, those grots couldn't hit a squiggoth at thirty paces; never mind a weaving fighta. Nevertheless there was no way he was about to let them get the glory of shooting down the flyboy, that was his job; and to this end he gave the steering stick a huge heave to one side, it was time for a head-butting contest.

[*]

Zagwazza had laughed when the shells from his own big shootas had torn into the fuselage and made its afta-burna cut out; that mek had stolen his fighta bommer, HIS own precious fighta bommer, and now he was going to blow it apart and that runt along with it. He fired another burst from his guns, hoping to take out the runt's engine; but the fighta bommer swerved with surprising agility; whoever that mek was, he was good.

"Ha!" he cried, a noise of true glee; it doesn't matter how good he is, it just made the fight more fun. Zagwazza knew he would win, no one could beat him; whether they be ork or ooman, he was the fastest thing on this planet.

Zagwazza's confidence took a violent lurch downwards, when the turret guns on his own fighta bommer started to shoot at him. That mek must have some kind of extendable arm, he thought, to be able to fly and shoot at the same time. He pulled the stick to the left, just managing to evade the deadly yellow streaks that snaked at him. This fighta was not his; he had taken it from another flyboy he knew, after first bashing the ork's brains out with a rock; and it was far too cramped and small for Zagwazza's considerable bulk; such that whenever he moved the control stick it wouldn't go very far before banging against his knees, considerably limiting the manoeuvrability of the fighta.

He just managed to weave enough for the fighta bommer's guns to miss completely; he even had to slow down so he could turn better; but it was worth it, he was alive. Now he was going to blast that mek once and for all, but for the second time that day Zagwazza found himself completely astonished; after completing a turn that he though was completely impossible, that crazy mek straightened up and flew straight at him!

"If dat's da way 'e wants it." Zagwazza growled, and promptly pulled the trigger to fire all of his weapons straight at the mek. A moment later and he realised that the fighta bommer thief had done the same.

[*]

Nozgub blasted away with the big shootas, not caring for whether they hit or not; he was simply ecstatic with the speed and excitement, revelling in the thundering sound of death which was pouring from his own fighta bommer. He saw streaks of light flick past the canopy as the flyboy opened fire, but it didn't scare him at all, he knew what he was doing. He was going to fly straight at that fighta and see who turned away first; it was an old game that yoofs often played against the biggest and angriest boars and Nozgub knew that, like the boars, he would never turn.

[*]

That mek must be some madboy, yes that must be it, that's why he was doing this. The two aircraft closed with startling speed, Zagwazza knew that he must've only fired a few rounds before he could see through the canopy of the stolen fighta bommer. In the flash he caught, he saw that that mek was no mere mek; he looked like a wyrdboy with that fiery look in his eyes and the way he was drooling, his long tongue lolling out; the resemblance was such that Zagwazza was sure he was going to start shooting lightning from his fingertips.

His courage broke, there was no way he was going to let this freak kill him; he would have to pull away and come back for another attack run, maybe with a few more boys by his side; that was the only way to deal with it. Before it was too late to do so, Zagwazza forced the stick as far forward as his knees would allow; sending the fighta into a steep dive, away from certain death and under that mad mek.

A huge explosion rocked the entire plane and shattered the glass canopy; shards rained down on Zagwazza's head, causing a few cuts, but nothing serious. His ears were filled with the roaring noise of air rushing around his head and the canopy's metal frame, but he still noticed the absence of one noise that was very familiar to him… the engine.

Turning around, he could just see out of the remains of the back of the orkpit. Half of the fuselage was missing, seemingly blasted away by that explosion; he could see many puncture marks in the wings and bits of torn and twisted metal where shrapnel from the blast had radiated out in all directions, tearing through the skin of the fighta. It seemed a miracle that Zagwazza had not been hurt.

Turning back round, he ripped off the canopy, watching for a moment as it seemed to float away from the plummeting remains of what had, for a brief moment, been his new fighta. Zagwazza knew that he wasn't going to die today, the ork gods clearly wanted him to live and that's what he was going to do; there was no way that he could be killed by some runty upstart mek.

He pulled the blue handle that should release the ejekta seat, praying to Gork that it still worked.

[*]

The moment that Nozgub had seen the flyboy's fighta dive, he had pressed all of the switches that released all six of the fighta bommer's highly explosive bomms; and an explosion beneath him had told him that one of them had hit its mark. He turned the fighta bommer so that he could watch the remains of his opponent's plane fall back down to the ground, the bomm had successfully removed the entire tail assembly of the fighta, without which Nozgub knew it was impossible to fly, no matter how much you hoped for it. He was surprised when he saw the rest of it explode some distance above the ground, leaving only small pieces to float gently down like leaves did in the autumn.

Nozgub had just beaten an Ork, and one that was much bigger than him as well; unfortunately he didn't have a chance to truly savour his victory as a coughing and spluttering noise alerted him to a problem. The fighta bommer's engine was struggling, making huge bellowing coughing noises like an ork with a bad phlegm problem; and the power was wavering, clear by the way the note made by the engine rose and fell.

A quick look told him why, the fighta bommer was speckled with holes; on the wings and, importantly, across the nose. It seemed that not all of the flyboy's shots had missed after all; Nozgub had just been too preoccupied to notice it before.

In a short time, the aircraft's nose started to dip uncontrollably, worse than it normally did even; and Nozgub knew he would have to land it. In one day Nozgub had stolen it, flown it, fought with it and killed with it; and now he was about to experience his first crash landing… brilliant!

"Hang on youse grots." He shouted gleefully over to Smashit and Hitit, who were once again clung to the gunner's chair as though it might save them. "We is goin' down!"

* * *

_I do wonder why so many people asked if I was going to include the dogfight with the other fighta, but of course, that was the whole point._


	3. Chapter 3

_Right, I know it has been an extremely long time, but I'm now trying to regain my enthusiasm for writing (I'll let you know how successful I've been). This chapter should be just as long as the last one and this is proabably about the length I'll stick to, though I will make no promises as to when the next chapter will be. I hope to see a couple of reviews for this though, that would be nice._

_Oh, and from now on this story will be known as 'Red Wunz go Fasta!' because I like the name better. All of my stories start with provisional titles, though this is the first time that I have actually changed one._

_Anyway, enjoy._

_Oh, and note that any spelling and grammar mistakes (especially during speech) are probably deliberate; these are orks after all, learning how to spell properly just wastes time that can be used fer smashin' stuff!_

* * *

The aircraft came down in fits and starts, flying level for a period before suddenly dropping, its nose taking a frightening turn down. It would then gradually pull level again, just for a few moments, before continuing its lurching progress towards the ground. For Nozgub it was less than pleasant, a constant wrestle with the steering stick in a desperate attempt to bring the fighta bommer down at some survivable speed. He had been forced to give up hammering at the engine controls, partly because he knew that it was hopeless, but mostly because he needed both hands on the stick to even stand a chance at forcing the damaged control surfaces to move.

The ground came closer and closer, he could see it every time the nose dipped. It was a series of low rolling hills covered in woodland, the trees standing tall and, in some areas, masking the shape of the hill upon which they stood. A sudden sense of panic gripped Nozgub; he knew that if he tried to land here, even the thick-skinned aircraft would be torn apart by any impact with the trees, leaving himself with about as much chance as a bowl of gruel. He cast around for a landing spot, his eyes quickly focusing upon a clearing which was just ahead and to the right. He knew what he had to do.

Sacrificing his opportunity to level his flight, he instead pulled the stick hard over. The plane responded sluggishly, its manoeuvrability now no better than that of a space hulk as the ground and the trees began rushing towards him; by the time it was facing the right direction Nozgub could actually make out tree roots on the ground. He pulled back hard, leaning back into the flyboy's seat in a desperate attempt to add more leverage to the control stick.

The fighta bommer's nose lurched violently upwards, but it was too little too late as a bone-jarring impact served to signal that they had landed. Nozgub felt his teeth smash together painfully as it happened, shaking his skull and causing his eyesight to lose focus. Somewhere behind him, he heard one of the grots retching and the inside of the orkpit was splattered with thick, foul smelling vomit.

The fighta bommer bounced upwards after the first impact; the soft tyres acting as quite efficient springs and actually launching in into the air again. Nozgub could see the opposite edge of the blurry clearing moving towards him quickly and knew that he had no other option than to force the stick down again to bring the aircraft back to the ground. His ears were filled with a sudden high-pitched screaming but not, as Nozgub had hoped, from the engine; it seemed that one of the grots was choosing this point to announce that he was hurt.

"Shut up! I is tryin' ta concentrate!" Nozgub bawled back; hoping that his own shouts would be heard over the noise, before promptly forcing the fighta bommer down again.

Another bone-jarring impact shook the whole machine and Nozgub had the briefest sensation of all his internal organs being mixed up before a third impact announced that the undercarriage had collapsed. The whole machine then slid along its belly, gouging a furrow into the forest floor, its momentum carrying it towards an inevitable conclusion.

The last thing to go through Nozgub's mind before the world turned black, was something like, "Oh, zog."

[*]

His feelings came back to him slowly, his body parts reporting back to him with pain; a surprised exclamation at the sudden realisation that they were still there and intact. Nozgub's nose was filled with the smell of grot vomit and oil, leaking out from the smashed up fighta bommer and he was hit by a sudden concern for the machine, hoping that it would fly again.

Nozgub opened his eyes to inspect the damage, but everything was still black; he was blind. Panic gripped him. He tried to move, but none of his limbs would respond in the way that he wanted them to; they simply flailed around limply screaming out to him that something was wrong. So he let them go limp, and let himself lie there on an uncomfortable lump of metal. He was blind and unable to move; in ork terms he was as good as dead, whether he would simply die here or would be killed by some other creature would remain to be seen.

The only hope was that it might only be temporary; orks are tough and green, and like everyone knows, green is best; orks aren't pink and squashy like 'oomans. Nozgub knew that he may yet recover; although it could take hours. So he lay there; a small part of his mind wondering what had become of his two grots, but mostly he lay waiting to see what which would come first; would his eyesight clear and his limbs move, or would he find himself with Mork in paradise? Paradise; where all the best food and fighting was, and Mork made sure that there was always some machines to tinker with, trukks that could travel faster than sound and guns shooty enough to destroy whole planets.

Right now; being with Mork was quite an attractive option.

[*]

They slipped quietly through the trees, some dashing from cover to cover, others slithering along the floor like snakes. They were all bulky, kitted out with packs carrying everything they might need, from food and water to heavy munitions; each of them carried as much as they could, but only because they had to. They moved quickly and quietly despite this, covering the ground in huge strides and being careful to tread on the mossy patches to further dull their footfalls. It was a technique that was learnt and practiced many times over, often in the heat of action, where you had to learn well or die; often by the enemy's hand, but even your own might take you out if you were in danger of giving them away.

Gitsnikk was not the biggest in his mob, but he was in charge anyway; he had the most kills to his name and was the most cunning, in his tribe it was how cunning you were that was important and as such he had beaten all of those stupid enough to challenge him for leadership. He crossed the ground in a near-silent run, perfected over many years of experience. The long-barrelled shoota gripped in his hands didn't even hint at a glimmer as it moved and caught the low hanging sun and neither did the sword-like choppa hanging from his waist, for both had been painted black to remove the shine that could be visible to the enemy; his shoota's barrel had also been wrapped in many layers of a thick green cloth to deaden the noise it made, a feature which would puzzle most orks but was standard for Gitsnikk and his boys.

The boys just ahead of the main group stopped, dropping down behind bushes and trees and as one the rest of the mob did the same, making no more noise than a falling leaf; Gitsnikk himself ducked down behind a tall, thick tree which completely dwarfed even the biggest orks, he then peeked around the trunk to get a line of sight to the boys that had stopped first.

He could just make them out against the green bushes, the camouflage on their clothes, equipment and skin working well; he could only see them as a result of his keen eyesight, and the fact that he knew they were there. He realised with some pride that even the most alert enemy could stare right at them and see nothing but shrubbery until it was too late. A curt hand signal from one of the orks told him that they had reached their destination.

Gitsnikk watched intently as the forward ork, whom he knew only as 'Yoof', sneaked forward a little further. He could feel the excitement building within him that always came at this point, like a wave of pleasure that threatened to control him; they had gotten this close completely unnoticed by whatever enemy lay in that clearing ahead of them and soon they would leap out from their cover to take them completely by surprise; and that's when the real fun would begin. In preparation he switched the safety catch on his shoota to the 'dakka' position; knowing that in less that a minute's time he would switch it again to the 'more dakka' position.

Unfortunately, that moment never came, as a quick series of relayed hand signals told him that the clearing was completely devoid of anyone to smash. Cursing under his breath, Gitsnikk switched his shoota back to the 'no dakka' mode and heard similar noises of disappointment from the other boys around him. Rising to their feet, they moved into the clearing to inspect what was there. They weren't disappointed.

Inside the clearing was a large battered shape that Gitsnikk recognised instantly as a fighta bommer; it had taken much damage and he knew that someone must have had a lot of fun before it had crashed. There were ragged holes across the nose and wings, clearly made by some large-calibre guns, and the undercarriage had collapsed causing the whole machine to gouge a scar across the clearing; but otherwise it looked to be in fine shape, the main parts all seemed to be there and attached to the fighta bommer so it should be fixable.

Gitsnikk remembered that the boss had been looking for a nice new war machine and this one fitted the bill perfectly, it would give them just the edge they were looking for; and the boss would likely reward him for being the one to return it. There was just one slight problem.

An ork lay across the nose of the aircraft, presumably its flyboy; completely unmoving. Gitsnikk gestured to a large, burly boy, one of the strongest of the lot of them, but not the brightest. The boy moved over to the flyboy and took hold of him, heaving the body up into a sitting position so that he could stare into its eyes. A long moment passed.

"WAKE UP!" The ork suddenly bellowed at the flyboy; shaking him violently and using one hand to slap him round the face. He then released his grip and watched, with a dumb expression on his face, as the flyboy simply fell limply from the fighta bommer and collapsed into a crumpled heap by its side.

There was a moment of silence before the big, slow ork spoke again, "I fink he's dead, boss."

Gitsnikk cursed under his breath again, having a fighta bommer was great but it was no use without the flyboy to make it go; and he knew that there wasn't anyone crazy enough in his tribe to fly the thing; well, other than the painboy, but he only liked riding vehicles not driving them. No, they'd have to think of something else.

"Is dere anyone else in dere?" Gitsnikk asked, pointing to the fighta bommer's orkpit, hoping there might be some nearly dead ork still in there; after all, nearly dead was still a little bit alive.

"No, boss." The big ork responded after smashing away what was left of the glass canopy to take a peer inside.

Things were looking worse, the only hope now was to see if the painboy could do something for this flyboy, maybe take his brain out and put it in another boy; he'd heard that it could be done, and otherwise they'd have to find another flyboy.

"Right," Gitsnikk said, deciding on a course of action. "Grubdak, Hisgit, Gorbork and Yoof can stay 'ere and watch over dis fighta bommer, make sure no one gets dere hands on it, cuz we'll be back fer it. Da rest of you boys can come wiv me, and one of youse lot had better bring da flyboy; we is gonna introduce him to da boss."


	4. Chapter 4

_Here's the more of this story that you asked for, now you can leave me alone. No, I'm just kidding, I enjoyed writing it and equally like hearing that other people enjoy it as well. And yes a Painboy is a Mad Dok, in the new codex they changed the name to Painboy, so I decided to keep it current._

_Okay, back to the tale of the runty mek._

* * *

Nozgub awoke to the briefest sensation of falling, before an impact told him he had hit the ground; the reports of pain from all of his limbs told him that they were still there and he thanked Mork for the fact that he could feel them again. As tempting as it was to move them though, he restrained himself; he didn't know where he was or what was happening. It was best to lie limp with his eyes tightly shut; years of sneaking around his own camp to scavenge things had taught him as much. And anyway, he still wasn't sure if he could see.

He reached out with his other senses. The first thing he noticed was the smell, no longer a mix of oil and vomit; this place smelt like an ork camp, the stink of sweat of other greenskins was unmistakeable. But this place was different from his tribe's home; he could still smell the forest around them, how close it must be to permeate through the smell of so many orks. He guessed that this place must be temporary, comprising of tents or ramshackle buildings made from thin, easily transportable sheets of iron. Of course it was equally likely that this tribe couldn't afford large, permanent buildings and so had to make do with whatever they could; if that was the case then escaping from them shouldn't be too difficult.

"Boss, we found 'im wiv da fighta bommer." A voice said from nearby; too deep for a regular boy, to high for a warboss, it must be one of the nobs who led this tribe's boys into battle. This was the conclusion that Nozgub would've come to had he not merely been surprised by how well he could hear.

"So, dis is the flyboy." A much deeper, slower voice said; and Nozgub heard a large pair of heavy boots smack into the floor very close to his head.

The voice clearly belonged to a very large ork, and Nozgub could sense it as it bent over to examine him closely; he could hear the ork's deep breaths and the creak of thick leather. There was no doubt that this ork was the boss that the nob was talking to; Nozgub could smell the bossiness and he was in no doubt who would win if this ork met Nozgub's old warboss.

"Yes boss, but he's dead boss." The nob responded; fear and respect in equal measure were clearly evident in his voice.

"Dead?" The warboss murmured.

"Yes boss, dat's how we found him." The nob's statement sounded slightly defensive.

"Dead." The warboss repeated, it was impossible to tell if it was a good thing or bad; but to Nozgub's relief he heard the warboss straighten up and walk away. There was a short moment of silence, broken only by the creak of a chair straining under a large weight.

"Dead…" The warboss repeated yet again; Nozgub could sense the nob tensing, expecting the worst. "Den how come he's breathin'?"

[*]

Smashit groaned under the weight of Nozgub's toolkit; it was a large bag made from squig-skin like many of the clothes from Nozgub's clan and it contained many heavy tools, from wooden mallets and large, steel spanners to strange metal devices (some of which glowed) the purpose of which only Nozgub knew.

After the landing, himself and Hitit had awoken relatively unharmed to find that their boss wasn't moving at all, even when they poked him. Lost and alone in an unfamiliar area they had been terrified, especially when both had picked up the unmistakeable scent of angry orks in the area. So; with good gretchin sense; they had fled the area, liberating Nozgub of his equipment in the process, lest it fall into the hands of some big, nasty orks. They had gone to ground some distance away from the clearing, hiding with the preternatural skill only found in gretchin and watched as the bad orks had come.

They knew that the bad orks wanted to take their boss' fighta bommer, and had considered trying to use one of Nozgub's stikkbombs to blow up the fuel tanks. Unfortunately, neither of them knew how to operate the devices (Hitit insisted that they were supposed to pull the pin out and throw the bomb at the target, but Smashit knew that it was the pin you were supposed to throw). It was only after a lengthy argument (during which they had managed to lose the stikkbomb anyway) that they noticed the bad orks were moving away anyway and were taking Nozgub with them. They had quickly settled that they should follow the bad orks and see what would happen. If necessary they could slip into another group of gretchin somewhere; after all, where there are orks there are gretchin.

It had been slow going; especially as Smashit had been lumbered with this heavy toolkit, which he had been forced to drag behind him. Hitit, carrying only their boss' slugga, bounded ahead to scout out the path and keep on the scent trail of the bad orks. Whenever he got too far ahead, he would come bouncing back to insist that Smashit hurry up; during which times Smashit had to restrain himself from beating his brains out, he had needed all his energy for dragging the bag which kept getting caught on tree roots and low branches. Eventually, they had reached the camp that belonged to the bad orks.

It was like no camp they had ever seen. Unlike most, they had not burnt away all of the grass and shrubbery so that they could erect huge metal structures; instead they had placed a mixture of tents and small, unstable-looking metal buildings around the edge of a clearing. All of the tents were made of a mixture of green and brown cloths and covered in bits of plants and branches to hide them amongst the forest; even the metal buildings had been painted green with brown and black splotches and covered in nets full of leaves. The camp still looked as busy as an ork camp looked; in the middle of the clearing they had made pens full of wild squigs which had many uses, though even this was covered by a leaf-filled net; there were orks and groups of gretchin moving about; some looked like they were trying to build a structure in a large, unused patch of the clearing, hammering in wooden stakes across the floor; and some orks were simply lazing around, drinking, talking, cleaning shootas. It was a scene any greenskin would be familiar with.

Smashit felt Hitit prodding his arm urgently and turned to see what he wanted; but rather than speaking, Hitit pointed to one of the tents on the far side of the clearing. Smashit saw instantly what Hitit was thinking. Several of the bad orks they had followed here were standing outside that tent; that must be where they had taken Nozgub.

"We has got to get dere." Hitit squeaked. Smashit already knew that, but they had to find a way to have a look inside without any of those big orks noticing.

[*]

"He's breathing?" The nob questioned stupidly; and Nozgub knew that his cover was blown, he had to do something. He didn't know if he could see or not, how many orks he was facing, he didn't even know if they wanted him alive; but all the same, he had to do something. Offering a quick prayer to Mork, he opened his eyes and sprang to his feet.

He was grateful that all of his limbs responded instantly, and he seemed to have taken them by surprise as he felt no bullets carving through his flesh; he guessed that none of them expected a dead ork to move with such speed. He saw an ork to his left and launched himself straight for him, not knowing if it was the warboss, nob or another. Fortunately, this one was too slow to react as Nozgub barged into him, causing him to fall backwards. Nozgub grabbed something from the ork's belt, jumped back into the centre of the room and pointed it at where he knew the warboss to be.

This was the first time he had seen this ork and almost dropped what he was holding in his surprise. The warboss was bigger than he had even imagined, Nozgub came up to the warboss' chin, and even then only because the huge ork was sitting. His skin was such a dark green that it was almost black and Nozgub new that it was probably as thick as squiggoth hide; add to that the thick plates of metal armour over the warboss' torso and Nozgub knew that the slugga he was holding (he had been immensely relieved to find that what he had grabbed from the ork's belt was what he suspected it to be) wouldn't stand a chance in penetrating it. His only hope would be to aim for the ork's head, which held a large grin on it.

Several noises behind him told Nozgub exactly why the warboss was grinning; it was the sound of half a dozen weapons being cocked. Looking around he could count five orks, all bigger than he was (though that was not unusual) pointing assorted guns at him, including the ork he had knocked over who had found himself another slugga and who was looking especially mean.

Nozgub looked back to the warboss, who sat at one end of this oval shaped tent surrounded by choppas, shootas and a variety of trophies taken from orks and 'oomans alike. He knew that whatever happened, he probably wasn't going to leave this tent alive; but if he could he was going to take this warboss down with him. He pointed the slugga directly at the huge ork's grinning face and slowly began to squeeze the trigger.

Something fell in front of Nozgub's face, fell from the sky and hit the floor; the mood changed instantly as everyone present looked down at the object that had fallen, even the warboss' grin momentarily disappeared, as they all stared at the green squig-skin bag. Nozgub recognised it instantly as his toolkit; had Mork answered his prayer?

It all became clear as, preceded by the sound of ripping fabric, two more green objects fell from a hole that had appeared in the tent roof.

[*]

Smashit landed badly, but recovered quickly and pointed both of his grot blastas at a large ork that was threatening Nozgub. Behind him he heard Hitit do the same, the click as he pulled back the hammer on his blasta being quite distinctive.

The bad orks recovered quickly and some of them aimed their weapons at the two gretchin; weapons of a large enough calibre to turn the grots into red smears on the floor. But Smashit and Hitit both held their ground; they were gretchin and were used to threats and violence.

The silence was broken as the bad warboss began to laugh, a deep rough sound which was how most ork laughter sounded. In spite of themselves, both grots turned to watch this unusual sight.

"Two grots…" The Warboss said, in between his fits of laughter, "Is dat it?"

As one, the other bad orks joined in with their warboss, apparently finding the whole situation hilarious; though the grots knew that they were only laughing because they thought their boss had made a joke, some of them even lowered their guns to better express themselves. After a minute, everyone became aware that another voice had joined the group; Nozgub had opened his mouth wide to laugh at his own situation.

Smashit and Hitit both exchanged a glance, was their boss mad? The bad orks must have been thinking something along the same lines, as each slowly stopped, even their boss halted his laughter; and Smashit saw something on his face which made him want to jump for joy… it was fear.

[*]

Nozgub laughed out loud; it was the only thing he could think of to do. The laugh was dry and humourless, but it had had the desired effect; it had made all of the other orks silent. Nozgub could see two of them out of the corner of his eye; they stood there with dumbstruck looks, unaware of what was forming in Nozgub's mind. Only their warboss seemed to have enough intelligence to realise why the small, cornered ork before him was laughing and it cheered Nozgub to see that it struck fear into the big ork. The effect it had turned Nozgub's dry laugh into a real one as he reached down into his toolkit a pulled out one of the strange devices.

It was a large and shiny looking dumbbell shaped object, with several switches and buttons down the handle; it must have accounted for most of the weight of the bag. Nozgub stopped his laughter and held the object before him, towards the warboss, but high enough so that even the orks behind him could see what it was.

"Dis here…" He said slowly; trying to stop the laughter from breaking out again as he thought about what mind he had been in when he had built this device. "Dis 'ere is a bomb unlike one you has ever seen before." He allowed a maniacal grin onto his face at this point, he really enjoyed his inventions. "If dis goes off it's gonna blow dis base ta smithereens and set all da forest round here on fire. And you an' all your boys is gonna be nothin' but ashes."

There was a pause; the tension in the air was tangible. Nozgub had been lying when he'd told them what the bomb would do; in reality he didn't know what would happen if he set it off, he had built it one night after he had been force fed large amounts of a very potent fungus beer. The bomb might do as he said, he was sure he had built at least one bomb which did that, or it might simply be a dud. There was only one way to find out.

Eventually the big warboss spoke, "You is lyin'" He said slowly, with very little conviction whatsoever.

"Well, let's find out." Was Nozgub's only response, and his thumb pushed one of the little switches on the side of the device. Then began a whining that started to slowly rise in pitch and a red light on top flashed, a last warning to anyone in the vicinity.

* * *

_Anyone who was really hoping to see the dok this chapter will be dissapointed, sorry but I never planned on putting him in just yet._


	5. Chapter 5

_As Rimshooter has kindly pointed out, there is in fact an existing story with the same name as this one (albeit spelt differently). This was something that I was not aware of until this point, so this is what I shall do. Given the fact that the author of this other story has not updated any of his fanfics for over a year now it seems reasonable to conclude that he has in fact abandoned the story completely. As such, I will continue to write this story under this title. Should the author of the other fanfic return and begin writing again then I shall be happy to change the title accordingly._

_Anyway, as I have no other reviews to answer I present chapter five._

* * *

The device's whine increased in pitch at an ever quickening rate, surpassing even the range that could be produced by a tortured grot. As the pitch increased so too did the volume; and Nozgub could feel it drilling into his head, making his teeth scrape against each other. He was sure that if it continued much longer his teeth might simply shake themselves loose; which would make him quite wealthy, though eating would be difficult. Fortunately, it ceased.

The other orks all took a step back, as though it might save them if the bomb detonated, even Smashit and Hitit scurried away from him in fear for their own lives. The device stayed silent in Nozgub's hand, the red light on top still pulsing as all observed it, waiting for the inevitable.

A mechanical whirr came from the device, followed by a series of metallic clunks and the light stopped as the bomb squirted out a single, small puff of green smoke.

A deadly silence filled the tent. It seemed like the loudest noise Nozgub had heard that day, loud enough to permeate even the thickest walls. His mind was thrown into panic, screaming at him to move his legs in a running motion and escape from the death that was about to hit him from half a dozen large-calibre barrels. But his legs refused to move, like a long abandoned rusty bolt.

It took a moment for the other orks to recover from their surprise but as they did Nozgub heard the inevitable sounds of weapons being cocked… again. He dropped his failed bomb, landing with a clatter on top of his toolkit and pointed his slugga right at the warboss' face. Now resigned to his fate, he wondered how many shots he could fire before he fell down and how many of those would hit. Not enough, he concluded, but at least he'd be able to wipe the huge smile that had now returned to the warboss' face, safe in the knowledge that his entire base was not going to be wiped out today.

"Youse is a mekboy, right?" The warboss said slowly, maintaining his superior grin. Though Nozgub was surprised by just how conversational the big ork sounded.

"Last time I checked." He responded, still tense; he wasn't going to let the casual tone throw him off his guard.

"Youse is kunnin'… and has GUTS!" The warboss shouted this last word, causing all present to jump. Nozgub was genuinely surprised that nobody had accidentally fired their weapon, including himself. "I likes dat." He finished in his normal tone, making a curt hand gesture.

Nozgub was saved the need of wondering the meaning of this gesture as he heard the orks behind him lowering their weapons. He could guess what was happening, but couldn't believe his luck; the warboss was going to let him live.

[*]

Nozgub sat patiently; well, about as patient as any ork ever could be. This tent was vastly different from that which the warboss lived in. Grotsmak, that was the name of these orks' boss… now his boss. The boss' tent was smaller than this… or maybe it simply seemed that way, much of the available space having been taken up by trophies. This tent was much blander, filled only with tables lain out in rows and made up like beds. The only decoration of any sort was blood; large splashes of it in shades varying from the brightest red to almost black covered the floor and walls in an almost artful way, not that orks truly appreciate art.

The only other feature in this tent was a simple partition made by hanging sheets from the roof behind which the tent's owner was presumably preparing to meet his 'patients'; from which there would be the occasional clank of metal usually followed by a high, rough voice cursing loudly before the place would fall quiet again.

The only other occupant of the tent was a young looking ork; definitely younger than Nozgub but still slightly bigger; who sat on a table closer to the partition than Nozgub and jumped every time he heard one of the metallic clanks from the painboy who was undoubtedly living up to his name on the other side of that partition. The yoof's skin was greener than that of a newborn grot's backside; or it would have been were it not for the camouflage patterns of greens and browns which adorned it.

Kommandoes. That's what these orks were called, Kommandoes. Nozgub had been told about them by an old and knowledgeable runtherd back at his old tribe, the same one he had bought Smashit and Hitit from. These were orks who specialised in the concepts of sneaking and low cunning, moving quietly up to the enemy and taking them by surprise rather than the more dignified, orky manner of running head first at them with arms flailing and screaming at the top of one's lungs. However, even that runtherd had never heard of any orks who took it this seriously with all the camouflage, the blackened weapons and the efforts to suppress their shootas. Nozgub had never even heard of a suppressor before, and he was a mekboy.

A sudden squeal interrupted his thoughts; a grinding of two metals against each other at very high speeds. Nozgub recognised it instantly as the noise of a power saw cutting through a pipe and in many ways it relaxed him, it was a noise common to the mek's shop he had worked in and it often helped him to sleep. For the yoof, however, it was more than he could take and he jumped so high that he missed the table on his way back down. The noise died as the yoof dragged himself back to his feet, muttering under his breath and Nozgub caught a glimpse of why the ork had come to the painboy in the first place. There was a large and bloody gash across his stomach, probably caused by a choppa or a squig; it didn't seem to be too bad as the ork could still move quite well… but Nozgub was no dok.

As though he'd heard the mention in Nozgub's mind, the painboy chose that moment to present himself; the partition flapping aside to let the greenskin's bulk through it. As the material folded back behind its owner, Nozgub was able to see the painboy for the first time. His jaw dropped.

The painboy was tall. Noticeably bigger than most of the kommandoes Nozgub had seen in this camp, probably bigger than some of the Nobs as well; but that was nothing compared to the choppa he carried. It looked to be as long as the painboy was tall, and had it been stood on end the blade would have gone from the ork's thigh to the top of his head; a blade that had sharp, blood covered spikes incrementally along its cutting edge. The choppa must've had a huge weight, something Nozgub doubted he could lift; never mind wield in battle; and yet the painboy before him held it in his right arm, resting it casually upon his shoulder.

A quick inspection revealed how it was managed; the painboy's arm and shoulder were completely bionic, the dull shine of the metal just showing through the blood-soaked clothes that had once been white. It must have taken a talented mek to create a complete bionic arm, one which couldn't have belonged to this tribe. The warboss, Grotsmak had told Nozgub that the tribe hadn't produced any meks for years since their last one had been involved in an accident (something to do with a trukk and an experimental turbo boosta, but Nozgub hadn't inquired further). As a result they had been forced to scavenge all their weapons and make sure that they didn't leave anything on the field of battle. That was why they had let him live. The deal was that if he acted as their mek and flew his fighta bommer for them, he'd be allowed the freedom to build whatever he wanted. Desperate to fly again, Nozgub had quickly agreed; unaware that he'd first have to be checked up by the tribe's painboy.

"I is Grimmsnikk Spleenrippa." The painboy announced happily in the same high-pitched voice they had heard earlier. "And I is gonna make youse all good as new. Okay?" He waited for a response, but either didn't expect one or didn't notice that both of his patients were too ill-at-ease to say anything right now. Regardless, a playful smile suddenly appeared on the ork's face. "Right. Who's first?"

[*]

Grimmsnikk loved this part of the day, it always put a grin on his face; or maybe that was the large amount of drugs he had just injected himself with… never mind. Today had been a good day; he had managed to successfully reattach his own bionic arm (the nuisance thing always came loose when he swung his choppa in a particularly exuberant fashion) and now he had patients to work with. Life was good.

As neither of the two orks before him seemed particularly enthused to volunteering he decided to inspect the closest one first; that way his legs wouldn't have to carry him too far (today the floor was stubbornly refusing to stay still). He stumbled forwards towards an ork he didn't recognise, but knew instantly he was one of the kommandoes from the greens and browns all over his clothes and skin.

The ork recoiled as Grimmsnikk planted his free hand upon the table to steady himself. He could smell the ork's fear; could smell that this was a yoof who might as well be fresh out of the ground for all the experience he had.

"So, what seems to be da problem with you den?" Grimmsnikk asked in his best professional voice; truth was he didn't like this yoof one bit… he didn't smell right, far too clean.

The yoof, presumably too scared to speak, lowered his hand to reveal the large gash across his stomach.

"You call dat a wound?" He asked incredulously; he had received more threatening wounds from grots. But that didn't matter; the ork thought he needed patching up and was too young and naïve. Now Grimmsnikk could smell something else… a profit. "Well, let me takes a look at ya."

Grimmsnikk leaned over the ork's stomach. Unaware that the ork recoiled further as the spikes from his choppa came within an inch of the yoof's nose, he flicked a special dok's eyepiece down over his left eye and squinted at the gash; the eyepiece magnifying the area greatly such that he could see the individual threads of the ork's clothing. He could tell instantly that the wound was not life threatening; there was some damage to the flesh and a broken rib, but nothing that wouldn't heal in a day or two. But what was actually going on wasn't of Grimmsnikk's concern, what mattered was what he could make the yoof believe was going on and how much he could charge for it.

"Dat's pretty bad what you got dere." He said with a sigh, in the most serious voice he could muster. He straightened up, flicking away the eyepiece.

"But you just said it wasn't bad." The yoof protested, finally finding his voice.

"I was wrong." Grimmsnikk cursed in his own mind; why were there no stupid orks in this camp? "You could die from dat."

"I don't fink it's dat bad, it doesn't 'urt no more."

"Look, if you don't let me do somefink, den youse is definitely gonna die. Youse is mortally wounded." It was a phrase he had picked up from humies. Not knowing what it really meant, he liked to use it as often as possible. The main advantage was that no one else understood it either and they usually took it to mean something bad. Usually.

"No, I really fink I is gettin' better." The yoof persisted, actually beginning to make a move from the table.

Grimmsnikk was now completely fed up; he was going to get some teeth out of this ork one way or another. "Fine, but I warned you." He said; and in one smooth movement he drew the slugga from his belt, placed it against the yoof's forehead and added a fresh new colour to the tent walls.

He slipped the slugga back into its holster as the yoof's body crumpled to the floor. "See, I told you so." He paused, remembering his second patient. "Now stay dere. I is gonna collect my payment from you later." He said sternly to the yoof lying on the floor, unmoving. That was the problem with yoof's today, they're all to keen to do what you tell them to; but he didn't have time for that now, he had another patient to deal with.

He rounded on the second one, an equally nervous looking runt; and his grin refreshed as he walked carefully down the tent.

"So, what seems to be da problem with you den?"

[*]

Nozgub placed his hand on the butt of his slugga as the painboy approached; should he need it, it would be ready. However, he doubted he could do much damage before the inevitable moment when that vicious choppa carved him in two.

Grimmsnikk seemed not to notice, and approached the table in exactly the same way he had done previously. He gave Nozgub a very searching look; a look that would make even the biggest ork feel uneasy, as though the painboy's eyes could see through skin and flesh to the organs and bones underneath.

"Youse is a mek right?" Grimmsnikk inquired, bringing his face close enough to smell his breath (which, it turned out, was quite a distance).

"If you says so." Nozgub responded, tired of being asked the same question repeatedly. The orks in this tribe clearly weren't used to meks.

"Well, I ain't never seen no normal boys carryin' toolkits." Grimmsnikk responded, apparently taking Nozgub's tone as an affront to his own intelligence. How he came to that conclusion Nozgub would never know, or even wonder. "So, what's wrong wiv ya?"

"Nuffink." Nozgub responded gruffly. In truth his arms were still hurting from the crash, but he wasn't about to mention that; he would rather keep his current arms.

"Nuffink!?" Grimmsnikk cried, "Den why is you 'ere?"

"Da boss told me to." This was true. Grotsmak had told him to go and see the painboy in case he had taken any permanent damage; now he thought about it, the boss probably wasn't thinking straight at that point.

"Da boss!? Oh, dat boss." A sudden look of understanding grew across the ork's face. "So you must be da flyboy den? Da one wiv da busted up plane."

"I ain't no mad zoggin' flyboy." He responded bitterly, spraying saliva onto the painboy's face, the grip on his slugga tightening.

"If you says so." Grimmsnikk backed off, leaning against the table opposite, his choppa still perfectly rested upon his shoulder. "Dere's just one fing I wants to ask you."

Nozgub merely grunted in response as he slid from the table. The only thing he wanted was to get out of here and check on his fighta bommer; no matter how badly damaged it was he was sure he could fix it.

"If youse is gonna be flyin' in da sky in a fighta bommer all da time," Grimmsnikk began, his tone thoughtful. "Does ya really need yer legs?"

Nozgub froze in place. The grip on his slugga was now so tight that he was sure he would've fired had the trigger guard not been there. Fortunately, he was saved the need of answering as the tent's main flap opened and the nob who had brought him here marched in.

"Oy, Mekboy!" The Nob growled with distinct distaste. "Get yer stuff, we is goin' out. Youse is gonna haff ta earn da right to stay 'ere."

* * *

_A Painboy, by popular demand. He was always going to be in the story, mind you, I merely wasn't sure where to place him. _


	6. Chapter 6

_Here it is, easily longer than the last chapter (can't be a bad thing) back up almost to the same length as the first chapter. Hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it._

_HellbirdIV, I like your laws would you perhaps like to start your own country? I'm sure it'll be a wacky, fun-filled place._

_Hmmm... Could the tribes lack of mekboys in a while be anything significant to the story? Good question _Warp Ligia Obscura, good question indeed.

_Anyway, enjoy._

* * *

His feet ached. The brand new leather boots he had been issued were hard and uncomfortable and had been murder on his feet over the long walk; and he was tired and hungry to go with it, it had been a difficult shift and all he wanted to do was settle down on his bed in the barracks. However, he had been ordered to patrol the outside of the base, in the dark forests that surrounded it; and though he was not far from the defensive perimeter (a bit of a misnomer really, given the hurried and crude fashion in which they'd been established he doubted that they could hold off against an attack of groxes) he couldn't see the base at all, such was the all encompassing darkness of night in the forest.

It was so dark that he could barely see, and they weren't allowed to use their torches lest the enemy spot them; though at this rate he'd probably smell them before he could see them and should he actually get a shot off, the flash from his lasgun would probably blind him. This whole patrol was pointless; he couldn't see how he could hope to be of any use whilst he was out here alone.

"What're you being so slow for?" Well, not entirely alone he thought as the voice of the Corporal came from the darkness.

"It's these new boots sir." He said, making a futile attempt to indicate the black leather. "My feet are killing me."

"You're feet are killing you!?" The corporal answered incredulously, presumably looking down upon the soldier derisively, though it was impossible to tell. "And you call yourself an Imperial Guardsman?"

He bit back the obvious retort, knowing full well that his actions would be reported to the Commissar, who had an absolutely barbaric view on discipline. The truth was that they weren't guardsmen they were Planetary Defence Force, the local PDF who had simply been rolled into the remnants of an Imperial Guard regiment to fill up the numbers; and he also knew that should war come, nobody expected anything from the PDF other than to die. They did have a choice in the matter though; they could either die at the hands of the enemy, or die in dishonour in front of a firing squad. This soldier knew which one he preferred, though at the same time he kept his mouth shut.

"Very well then." The corporal said after a short pause. "There's a rock beside you. Take a moment to rest your feet and adjust your boots, just a moment mind you. I'm going to look ahead a little."

The soldier nodded and dropped down to sit on the rock, letting his lasgun drop beside him. The relief of taking the weight from his feet was a wonderful feeling and he barely heard the footsteps of the corporal moving off into the distance, the variety of dead plant matter on the forest floor rustling and sometimes crunching under the standard issue boots. He took the opportunity to relax for a moment, glad that his corporal was such an understanding officer unlike any of the actual Imperial Guard officers who were so full of discipline and duty that he wondered how long it would be before they simply got fed up of the PDF altogether and had them sent on a suicide mission. Then again, maybe they already had.

His thoughts were broken as he heard a short, stifled yelp, seemingly cut-off in the middle. His heart raced immediately as he snatched up his lasgun, his fingers quickly and automatically trying to find the safety catch in an attempt to release it; they fumbled the first time… and the second, but on the third attempt he managed it.

He could feel his heart pounding in his chest and was sure that it would soon simply burst free and escape of its own accord. Standing up, his mind was filled with horrible visions of the approaching enemy slipping from the shadows to force a large and blunt blade through his stomach. He could see it all; the thick green skin which covered the bulging muscles, the fangs that had just been soaked in the corporal's blood, and (worst of all) the evil red eyes glowing in the darkness.

He raised the lasgun to his shoulder, prepared to fire in his own defence, but quickly realised it was useless; he would barely be able to see his targets, let alone shoot them. He toyed quickly with the idea of using his torch or a flare to illuminate the area, but would that not simply lead the monsters to his position? He could feel his hands shaking violently as his mind froze; he couldn't remember what to do. Should he try calling out to the corporal? He may only have tripped after all. Or should he contact the base and report it? But they might think that he was simply being the typical cowardly, paranoid PDF soldier. Or maybe the solution was-

[*]

There was a pleasantly loud crack like the sound of a breaking stick as the ooman's neck snapped; even Nozgub could hear it from his position near the back of the mob, where he had been forced to wait whilst a more experienced kommando watched over him. Nevertheless, Nozgub's keen ork eyes could make out the body of the ooman as the nob of this particular mob laid it carefully and quietly down on the floor.

The kommandoes struck Nozgub as nothing short of amazing. He was no stranger to the concepts of sneaking and low cunning, but these orks all took it in their stride as though it were something completely natural; from the way they painted themselves and their weapons to hide them in the undergrowth to the way they walked, making almost no noise whatsoever even though they were laden with shootas, choppas, stikkbomms and an assortment of other bits of equipment. They had managed to move right up to the two humies who formed the patrol, wait until the two had separated and then pick them off without alerting anyone; true, the ooman who had stopped to rest his feet had been somewhat surprised, but it didn't do him any good. It was nothing short of incredible.

The ork who watched over him gave Nozgub a slap on the back of the head and he noticed that the rest of the mob was beginning to move forward, he would have to go with them, of course, though what exactly they wanted of him he wasn't sure. He rose to his feet to follow the others, doing his best to imitate their quiet crouching jog; apparently he wasn't doing too badly this time as the supervising ork didn't hit him, or maybe it was just that he didn't want Nozgub to cry out and alert the humies. He was glad that he had left the grots behind at the camp to guard over the fighta bommer; given their past record, they would probably trip over and scream as their face was planted into the ground or crushed under the boots of the many orks that were now moving, as the other mobs beside and behind them began to advance in a thick, green column.

They reached their destination quickly and, as one, the whole column of orks seemed to settle down into cover that took full advantage of their camouflage. Nozgub was glad of the chance to stop and lean himself against a large oak tree; several times on the run here he had almost tripped over a root that had come out of the darkness, so he used the opportunity now to look ahead for a clear path through to the edge of the trees where they had been cut back around the 'ooman camp. However, the other ork pulled him back behind the tree and gave him a very meaningful look which he instantly understood. He was exposing himself too much; unlike the other orks he hadn't been given any camouflage equipment or had his skin painted, instead he had to make do only with what equipment he had, which amounted to a slugga and the contents of his toolkit.

Several orks moved forwards from the trees, including one who was clearly the boss Grotsmak, and the others waited in silence. It was only now that Nozgub noticed the sounds coming from the ooman camp not far beyond those trees; the sound of chattering voices, clinking glasses, music and occasional laughter, yet he couldn't quite see the camp itself. Several new noises; small clunks, stifled cries and even a couple of dull thuds were just audible over the noise that the ooman's made. There was a short pause before a series of curt, relayed hand signals were sent back to his position. Nozbgub knew not what they meant, but the ork with him gave him another slap and a push, indicating that he should get moving.

He rose quietly and started moving, acutely aware that the other kommandoes gave him strange looks as they passed, as though they had never seen a mek before (though many of them probably hadn't). As he moved out of the trees, he got his first glimpse of the ooman camp and it was impressive. Large walls made of what looked like sheets of iron and boards made from some material Nozgub didn't recognise ran around the entire camp, the tops of which were cut like the teeth of a saw, allowing points to fire weapons from and points to hide behind. Dead ahead of him was a pair of large gates onto which two towers were attached, fitted with heavy weapons; and at the base of the walls at this point was a cluster of a dozen or so kommandoes, including the boss, and a small pile of humie bodies that had presumably been manning the guard towers only moments before.

"Come 'ere." Grotsmak whispered as Nozgub reached the walls, and he hastened to obey as the boss brought him over to the gates, which looked even bigger now that he was stood below them. "Can you open dis fing?"

Nozgub eyed the large gates for a moment, doubting that even Grotsmak could touch their tops even if he were to stand on the tips of his toes. The gates themselves seemed sturdy enough to resist simply bashing them down without giving enough time for the humies to reach those big guns and blow away half of the orks hiding in the trees, though Nozgub noticed that the heavy hinges upon which the gates swung were exposed and vulnerable.

"I could blast it open." He whispered back; not that there was any real need to for the noise made by the humies was even louder at this distance and would cover up a few spoken words.

"Dat's good too." Grotsmak responded, a grin forming quickly on his face; no ork in the whole universe could resist an opportunity to make a loud noise or an explosion, not even kommandoes it seemed. "What do ya need?"

Nozgub considered this for a moment, trying to remember exactly what he had in his toolkit, "Stikkbomms." He said.

[*]

He was in his element. Blowing things up was something that all orks were talented at and enjoyed very much, and Nozgub was no different. It reminded him of the time a particular group of boys had annoyed him and he had wired up their trukk to explode if they ever slowed down. It had been a riot to watch them driving round and round in circles as their grot riggers tried to find and remove the bomb before the trukk ran out of fuel, and even more fun when the bomb eventually did go off and the burning wreck careened straight into the squig pen; the whole tribe had a fun day of squig hunting and with only the loss of a few orks and a few dozen snotlings. Nozgub had used the opportunity to sneak into unattended huts and liberate their owners of several choice pieces of equipment, blaming the missing bits on the squigs and offering to sell their owners 'replacements'. He had made a killing that day. He hoped to manage the same today, though with a hopefully more literal sense; there should be plenty of bits and pieces inside this human camp to help him rebuild his fighta bommer, maybe even make a few adjustments to it.

He realised that he had finished setting the charges. There was one large one in the middle consisting mainly of a huge blob of his potent exploding paste, (which he had been relieved to find was still in his toolkit) and a stikkbomm jammed in the middle which would serve as an impromptu detonator. This charge would first blow a large hole in the middle of the gate, and the explosion would be carried along exploding paste-covered bits of rope to the four smaller charges set at the hinges, which were comprised of the heads of stikkbomms; these charges would make sure that the gate fell, allowing a huge hole in the walls for the full weight of the mobs to charge straight through.

"Jobs a good'un boss." He said, making his way back over to Grotsmak who had been standing with remarkable patience by the side of the gates.

"Good, we is just watin' for da signal." Grotsmak responded, indicating the top of the wall where Nozgub could just make out one of the kommandoes resting on the edge.

Whilst he had been working the kommandoes with the boss had produced what they called "grapplin' hooks" on the end of long ropes and thrown these up over the top of the wall. There the hooks had caught on something (except one which fell back and bounced off the head of the ork who had thrown it) and the kommandoes had used the ropes to ascend the walls and haul themselves onto the parapet.

"What is dey doin'?" Nozgub asked, genuinely interested. If he was going to be a part of this strange tribe, he thought he'd best learn what they did and why they did it.

"Dey is gettin' rid of the humie's big guns on da walls, so da boys don't get cut down quick." Grotsmak answered patiently, still looking up at the kommando on the parapet. Nozgub knew that the plan made sense, though it was a level of planning that no other ork warboss would ever stoop too. "Dere's da signal."

Nozgub looked up and saw a green arm poking over the parapet giving a 'thumbs up', even he knew what that meant and his heart began to race with excitement. He knew exactly what to do right now, and got on with it without a word from the boss or anyone else. Walking up to the gate he pulled the stikkbomm from the centre charge, yanked the pin out with his teeth and rammed the explosive head back into the sticky mass of paste… then he ran.

He could feel the excitement pumping through him as he moved his feet with all of the speed he could manage away from the gate and the column of orks who had stopped hiding and simply waited at the edge of the forest, ready to charge through it. He would've counted with fuse off in his head had he known how long it would last, but no one did; ork fuses were always made to be a bit random to add an element of excitement to throwing a stikkbomm (not that making huge red explosions and seeing pieces of the enemy come flying across your head leaving only red smears where they had once stood wasn't exciting enough, but orks could never get enough excitement). Once he had reached what he judged to be a safe distance he threw himself to the floor, lest a piece of hot metal come flying from the explosion and dig itself into the back of his neck.

Barely a moment later it came. The roar of the explosion. The charges going off so quickly after each other that the sound became simply a single blast. Nozgub could feel the heat wash over him and hear the wonderful sound of tearing metal, the screeches as the wall was tortured with the forces placed upon it and the cacophony of clangs as the gates and the two guard towers fell inwards onto the camp. Nozgub barely had time to wonder if he shouldn't have used more paste when a new sound filled the air, the excited bellow of the boss.

"Dis is it boys," He screamed, the sound of the battle lust clearly evident. "WAAAGH!"

And as he screamed that ancient orkish battle cry, known and feared across the galaxy by all races, every single ork present joined him. Together, their screams combined and filled the night with a single tone, the combined strength of which seemed to form an almost physical wave which swept out from the mobs as they began their charge from the trees. Sweeping across the whole ooman camp, the sound was wonderful to the ear of every greenskin and brought a message with it that was universal in the ork language and roused even the weakest to battle.

This is where the fun begins.

* * *

_That last statement is dead right, I can't wait to start writing the next chapter. But I'll have to, I must be fair to all my stories as I do enjoy them all very much. _

_Here's something for you all to think about in the meantime. Imagine taking a large squig and filling it with hydrogen (a lovely explosive gas) so that it floats. Shove the head of a large stikkbomm (or several if it is a very big squig) in its mouth and tie it off (so the squig can't drop it). Then use a string to stop the squig from floating away but tie the end of the string not to the squig but to the pin of the stikkbomm (I'm sure you can see where this ends up). Now that's any orky balloon... explosive and potentially lethal._

_p.s. Feel free to swap the stikkbomm with a much larger explosive device if your tribe has access to such things, or if you've managed to breed one monster, empty and rubbery squig._


	7. Chapter 7

_Yes, these Kommandoes are very Commando-ish. However, they are an extreme case. And Kommandoes are only Commandoes up to a point._

_Anyway, enough said. I won't waste any time._

* * *

The noise was immense as the green horde rushed through the hole where the gates had once stood and into the compound's vulnerable innards. The boys shouted and whooped with glee as they tore their way inside roughly constructed buildings and cut apart the humies nestled within; those armed with shootas let rip with a thunderous torrent of large calibre shells the power of which was enough to tear down one of the weaker buildings, crushing and trapping those too slow to leave; though even those that had managed to escape were quickly minced by the shoota boys as they sprayed bullets every which way, aiming was secondary to making a lot of noise.

The humies were far too slow, taken utterly by surprise (and many unarmed or undressed) they were easy prey for the kommando's choppas and many were cut down in the first seconds; the orks revelling in the thrill of combat as they brought death to their favourite enemy, the waaagh energy put out would be felt by any other greenskins for miles around.

Nozgub found himself in the middle of this mayhem of war and death with no recollection as to how he had got there, he slipped back behind one of the buildings that was still standing as a burst of glowing red fire shot past, aimed towards the big ork who had guided him here. The ork stumbled as all three shots hit him, but quickly regained his composure and charged forwards, screaming at the top of his lungs and waving a sword like choppa which had blades at both ends. The next scream was undeniably that of the humie as the ork's strange weapon claimed another victim.

He breathed hard; he was a mek, fighting wasn't his job, building was. The other orks were turned into frothing, half-crazed beasts by the thrill of battle; something that was hardly believable considering their calm and skilful approach to the ooman's camp; but Nozgub didn't react in the same way, this battle didn't give him that same thrill as the dogfight in his fighta bommer had, being down here on the ground where everyone ran on foot just wasn't the same. It all seemed too slow.

Another burst of fire smashed into the wall beside him, knocking dusty chunks from it. Nozgub returned fire, poking his slugga around the corner and firing half a dozen rounds randomly, not caring if or what they hit. The humies were beginning to get organised now, overcoming their initial surprise they had started to band together into mobs, but anyone could tell that it was too late, half of the base had already been eradicated, puddles of blood and corpses littering the floor and several buildings issuing great columns of smoke into the air as they burned out of control.

He decided that he had to move. If he wanted to claim enough scrap to rebuild his fighta bommer he would have to be seen to be in the fighting. He let the empty magazine drop from his slugga and slapped in a fresh one; he didn't know how many rounds his trusted gun actually held but he knew exactly when it was empty. It was something that only mekboys were skilled in, other orks only noticed when their weapons stopped making noises so they simply referred to it as Mek's Know-wotz. Though most orks (Nozgub included) couldn't care less.

He drew one of his few remaining stikkbomms in his other hand and broke from cover. Careful to stay away from the thickest fighting he aimed for an area where a building had just started burning. That would be his best bet, somewhere to kill some humies and claim some scrap, and in the next fight he could be once again flying at high speeds and hearing the beating of his big shootas as they unloaded death into the enemy… whoever that might be.

[*]

It was so beautiful… The flames cast light all around them as they surged upwards, a ravenous beast feeding on the flammable structure and roaring in delight at what it had found. A full range of reds and oranges danced before him as the building was engulfed in the fire, the screams of those inside joining with the noise of the burning into a breathtaking melody that made his heart race.

It was pure joy… The smell of burning fuel and scorched flesh filled his nostrils with such a sweet aroma that he could do nothing more than breathe it in deep. And he had caused it. This was his doing. Unleashing the raging beast upon the humans felt so good and filled him with a deep satisfaction that few things in life could match.

Hefting his tool of destruction, he pointed it towards another building and unleashed another gout of flame, another stream of burning liquid burst forth from its nozzle and poured through the window, turning yet more humans into incandescent torches as they ran to seek something that would douse the flames. Many were lucky and ran straight into the oncoming bullets from the shoota boys, being torn to shreds in an instant; but the unlucky ones were forced to wait as their skin burned and they were sent, slowly, into the arms of whatever waited for them on the other side.

He cackled as he watched the mayhem that he had caused unfold, his voice loud even amongst the sounds of war that echoed all around them. He didn't care for what happened to the enemy, he didn't care for suffering or pain. All he wanted was to squeeze the trigger and let forth the burning beast once more, to set this whole place into one raging inferno.

So he laughed; unaware of the black shadow that stood behind him, unaware of the harsh click as a heavy round was drawn into a firing chamber, unaware of the cruel stifled laughter from that black figure as it plotted his death. To an ork, a real ork, death is just the path to an even better fight.

[*]

Nozgub heard the cackling laughter from the ork ahead. He saw the swish of a black cloak as a humie stepped out of nowhere. He watched the humie cock his weapon and raise it to the back of the ork's head, a large calibre pistol that was about to spray the contents of that ork's head into the air like a fountain… and he acted.

He ran forwards, straight towards his target in the same way that he had seen many a greenskin do before him, firing his slugga repeatedly and revelling in the solid kick that it reported back with after each pull of the trigger. The shots were wild however, and only succeeded in alerting the humie to the presence of a new threat.

Quick as a squig out of a cannon the humie turned to face him, ignoring his previous target completely and raising his own pistol against Nozgub. With no time to reload the mek resorted to the only other thing he could think of and hurled the stikkbomm with all of his might straight at the surprised 'ooman.

The stikkbomm sailed through the air, spinning in a graceful arc before colliding with the human's head. The heavy metal explosive head of the stikkbomm smashed straight into the soft and bony face with a sickening crunch, and bright red blood sprayed out in all directions.

The human fell with the stikkbomm, his body becoming limp after the tremendous impact. Though enough life remained for his finger to pull the trigger, the shots went harmlessly up into the air, becoming bright traces of light like rockets shooting for the heavens.

Nozgub too hit the dirt. He dove to the floor and covered his head, expecting at any moment to hear the stikkbomm's low bang, feel the ground tremor beneath his chin and hear the red hot shards of metal whistle past his ear as they scythed through the air. But nothing came.

"Hey! Is you stupid or somefink?" Nozgub looked up to see the ork he had saved standing above the fresh human corpse, holding a stikkbomm in an outstretched hand… his stikkbomm. "Don't you know that you is supposed to pull da pin BEFORE ya throws it?" The ork shouted above the battle, his voice higher than one would expect for one of his size.

Nozgub got to his feet and reloaded his slugga, saying nothing. The ork who stood before him wasn't actually that much bigger than Nozgub. He wore the same camouflage as the rest of his tribe, but he had a thick pair of goggles over his eyes and a metal welding mask strapped to his head, flipped upwards to allow greater visibility in battle. Though these were only small details as the real telling factor of this ork's passions was his weapon, a rusty flamethrower which most orks knew better as a 'burna' from which fuel lines fed to the large tanks upon his back. It was no wonder that he had seemed like such a huge ork from a distance, the tanks were fatter than a boar and probably weighed as much, and they were covered in the same mix of greens and browns as the tribe's uniform.

"Dis is yours." The burna boy said; throwing the stikkbomm down at Nozgub's feet, before indicating the human's corpse. "But 'e is mine."

"I killed dat humie!" Nozgub protested; he had to make sure that he got at least some of the glory, and he wasn't going to let this burna boy stop him. He snatched up the stikkbomm and placed his finger into the ring that would pull out the pin. There was no way that this burna boy would stop him.

"Alright, alright. Calm down." The ork said, his attitude and voice changing completely. "You can 'ave 'im. I don't wanna waste fuel on da likes of you, not when dere's 'umies to burn." His eyes lit up at the mention of burning things, glowing a bright red in the night; though it may just have been the fires reflecting in his goggles, it gave the ork a fearsome, unstable look.

Nozgub dropped the stikkbomm back into his bag and walked over to the humie, getting uncomfortably close to the burna boy who was probably about as stable as the flammable concoction that filled his weapon. The human wore almost all black; it was easy to see how he had gotten around behind them undetected, wearing a long black coat and hat. The humie's face had been so badly mangled that it wasn't worth taking his head, the skull would be useless, but Nozgub's eyes fixated on the jet black, peaked cap that he wore. He reckoned it would fit nicely.

He took the cap and jammed it on his own head. It was a bit snug and he didn't understand the insignia upon it, but it would do as a trophy nonetheless.

"Hey, is youse a mek?" The burna boy asked; a note of genuine query in his voice.

"Yeah, how does you know?" Nozgub responded defensively, he hated being asked the same thing over and over and over…

"You smells like one. But dat don't matter. Da fing is, can you make me a new burna? And some burny stuff ta put in it?"

His instinctive response was to tell the ork exactly where he could stick his burna if he didn't show some teeth… But he held it back, this was a chance for business and maybe they could both profit from it. Well, Nozgub would benefit most, but that was usual as very few greenskins were shrewd businessmen.

"Tell youse what." He began, trying to put the right spin on it. "I'll build you a burna if you'll use it ta help me wiv some buildin' stuff… an' if you keeps helpin' den I'll get ya all da burny stuff ya wants. Deal?"

The ork considered this for a long time, frowning as he put all of his brainpower and concentration into something that didn't involve setting fire to things. But eventually he agreed.

"Good choice." Nozgub said; even though it was the only choice really. "I is Nozgub, by da way."

"Grogit Deffburna." He responded. "Now, if dat's all. I 'as got some fings to do."

And with that, Grogit left, running off back into the fray. It wasn't long before Nozgub heard the screech of the burna as it found yet more victims and the cackling laughter of Grogit, which this time was accompanied by shouts of "BURN, HUMIE, BURN!"

* * *

_I realised when I was writing this that there was no way I was going to fit all of this battle into a single chapter, no matter how much I tried, and this seemed like a good place to end. However, I'm going to try my best to do as much writing as possible, but I've got a lot going on at the moment so I'm making no promises._

_Anyway, join us next time for Chapter 8 in which we shall see part two of the battle along with some much loved (and much feared) crazy orky Kultur._


End file.
